Cheery Cherry

Nothing brightens my hideous '70s counter top like a bowl full of cherry tomatoes. I keep them out there as much for their color as for their delicious sweet snackiness.

Is that a word?

Between My Beloved and me, the whole bowl will be gone by the end of the day but that's just a good excuse to hit the farmer's market for more.

When I first moved to California from Western New York state, I rolled out of bed at 6am on a Saturday morning, having read that Berkeley had a good farmer's market. In Rochester, all the best produce is gone by 7:30am; Western New Yorkers are industrious people.

Anyway, I arrived at the site of the Berkeley market, all primed to be squeezing the peaches next to the likes of Alice Waters, only to find one lone booth with a single guy inside. Tragedy! Had I missed the whole thing by slugging it in bed until late in the morning?

I approached with downcast aspect the lone man in the booth, asking when the market closed. "Closed?" he replied, "Lady, it doesn't even open until 10:00am! Go get a latte and chill!"

My first taste of the California attitude toward life in general. Farmer's markets really are better at 10am after a good cup of coffee. Is it any wonder I love this place? I bought cherry tomatoes that day, too, after I got that latte and chilled.